Fearful Symmetry
by Big Twinkie
Summary: Hot Fuzz. If Nicholas Angel can take out all the little people, he gets to waltz away with the Cuddly Monkey. That is, if he can keep his wits about him.
1. Chapter 1

Fearful Symmetry, Part One

Summary: If Nicholas Angel can take out all the little people, he gets to waltz off with the Cuddly Monkey.

Note: For those of you that don't know, CO19 is the British equivalent of SWAT. To read Blake's _The Tyger_, go here.

Nicholas Angel hates it here. He hates his co-workers. He hates Sandford with its overblown sense of importance. He hates chasing swans and every menial task Frank can think of. He hates everyone at the Met, too. Six years of service, taking away from his time with his family and Janine, and they've forced him to transfer because—and here's the best part—he's too good at his job. With everyone's overwhelming enthusiasm.

Quite frankly, he's never felt so rejected in all his life.

But he doesn't care to dwell on that. He's been too preoccupied with Simon Skinner anyhow, who is very good at putting Nicholas on edge anytime he shows up.

When he's not preoccupied with Skinner, there's Danny Butterman. Danny Butterman at work, Danny Butterman after work, Danny Butterman even when he goes to sleep—they got thoroughly drunk last night and Nicholas was a bit stunned to wake up next to him.

Danny is determined to be his friend for some reason. While he might be immature, rarely ever say the right thing, and woke up this morning thinking that cowboy get-up was a good idea, Nicholas has to admit he likes Danny too. So he finds himself indulging in Danny's little requests. They were harmless enough.

Except for this one.

Danny is motioning him to a nearby stand**. **When he approaches the booth that Dr. Hatcher is working, Danny is waiting with a childish glee to see what he can do. Hatcher smiles congenially, but there's a sense that the other man is sizing him up. He also wants to see what Nicholas can do.

"This is a rifle range," Nicholas says flatly.

Danny grins. "You'd be really good at it."

Hatcher is still smiling and amiably says, "Feeling lucky, Sergeant?"

It sounds familiar, but Nicholas can't place the reference—best to ask the walking action movie database next to him another time. Right now he's agitated and wishing Danny hadn't dragged him over here.

"Three cans wins you the Squeaky Bunny," Hatcher points out. "Five cans gets you the Floppy Lion. Take out allll the little people, you get to waltz off with the Cuddly Monkey."

Another smile; Hatcher is holding the Cuddle Monkey between his hands as if the Cuddle Monkey actually needs cuddling. Nicholas looks at the row of little people and wonders how appropriate shooting "little people" really is.

Nicholas sighs, looks around the fete for anything to do and finds nothing, then looks at Danny.

"I thought I made it clear to you how I feel about firearms."

Danny's smile fades and he points at the gun, with a half-hearted shrug.

"It's only an air rifle."

Somehow this manages to override his determination not to touch a firearm ever again. That's a two-year record down the drain. He's not sure how Danny did that, but he finds himself giving in. It had been only a matter of time, really.

Philosophically he doesn't like guns. Guns are crude, a coward's way of dealing with things—but if you take away the guns people will get knives, and when you take away the knives, they'll get baseball bats, and when you take away the bats, they'll get rocks and throw them at each other.

And like any officer he was determined to do well in marksmanship. As a cadet and CP he had thrown himself into all aspects of his training in the hope of making it to CO19. That's where the most interesting work was.

Now he chases swans with Danny. Nicholas honestly feels the need to shoot something.

"Sergeant," Hatcher says, placing the ammo on the counter. He knows what's coming, he doesn't even charge them. Nicholas relents and reaches for the rifle. The Cuddle Monkey will be cuddled after all.

"Hee, hee," Danny claps his hands in anticipation. Nicholas slides a hand over the rifle. It feels good, he knows it does. All this time he's been dry, but not sober.

_Happiness is a warm gun,_ he thinks ironically, and then recalls Lennon was gunned down by a maniac.

_Never mind. _

Nicholas studies the little people hard. He picks up the rifle, making sure the barrel ispointed downrange, and keeps his finger outside the trigger guard for now. Okay, fine, if Danny wants a show he'll give him one.

He loads thechamber, keeps his grip firm. There is no air between his hands and the rifle as he takes a proper firing stance. Aligning the front sight with the rear sight, Nicholas makes sure that the gap between the sides of the front sight and the left and right sides of the rear sight notch are equal.

Maintaining his focus on the front sight, he brings the rifle to bear on the little people. He sees the sharply focused front sight touching the bottom of a blurry, unfocused little person.

Danny is practically hovering.

"You mind?"

"Sorry."

Danny scoots away maybe two inches. Nicholas refocuses, aims for the center mass, and gradually squeezes the trigger with a constant rate and pressure. He times his shots with his breath, making sure to retake aim because the recoil will offset his alignment. Nicholas doesn't rush. He makes sure to aim each time.

All the little people fall down in quick secession. He even compensated for the rifle's crooked sight. Hatcher turns and looks back at him in shock. Apparently not many people win the Cuddle Monkey.

"Dear Lord…," Hatcher says.

Nicholas hands the rifle to Danny without looking at him. Danny makes a little noise of awe, as if shooting unmoving targets from a few feet away was all that impressive. But it's not Danny he's really paying attention to. He's too busy watching Hatcher. He's not sure why, but Hatcher seems a bit alarmed and it can't be because he has to give up a stuffed animal.

_Stop it. _

Being vigilant has made doing his job possible thus far, but when you're out in the safest village in Britain there's not much to do with that buzz of excitement. Everything that used to work for him doesn't jive in Sandford at all.

Hatcher recomposes himself quickly. Nicholas isn't sure why he read anything into the doctor's behavior that he should be worried about, but mentally files it for later anyway.

"That was a—maz—ing," Danny exclaims, before his finger manages to find the trigger and the rifle goes off. Both of them jump in surprise and Nicholas looks between Danny—simply stunned, to Hatcher who cries out in pain. Hatcher hops around on one foot and finally falls over.

Nicholas slides over the counter to see what the damage is. Ask for trouble and thou shalt receive. Danny bites his lip, puts the rifle down, and slides it away from himself.

Twenty minutes later the ambulance arrives and Hatcher is wheeled out on a stretcher. He passes Nicholas and Danny, who's been apologizing for, well, twenty minutes. For the most part Hatcher's been a sport about being shot in the foot and has given Nicholas his Monkey. He did win, after all.

"Thank you, Danny," Hatcher says curtly, as he passes them by. They watch him being loaded into the ambulance.

"Can't believe I shot someone..."

"He's a doctor, he can deal with it."

"I've never shot anyone before," Danny says glumly.

"Danny, believe me it's not something you ever get used to."

"Yeah…Maybe we should go on the Bouncing Castle—get our minds off it."

_What an odd character you are_, Nicholas thinks. Then again, if Nicholas could bring himself to jump in Bouncy Castles and play cowboy, he'd probably be a happier individual.

Nicholas scanned the fete. Onlookers have moved on now that Hatcher is leaving. It will probably be the most interesting thing to happen all day, save for, you know, George Merchant found burnt to a crisp this morning. He thinks of a bumbling Merchant being carried home, having lost his friends just a few days ago. He thinks of Hatcher having nothing to say except a flimsy postulation that's passing as a coroner's report.

And he thinks: _What the hell am I doing here? _

That's when he spots Tim Messenger slipping through the crowd, making a beeline towards him. Nicholas really wishes this annoying little man would go away. He doesn't want to talk about his perfect Sunday, or make inappropriate comments about suicide so Messenger can sell more dribble.

Messenger finally catches up to them, a little short of breath.

"Sergeant Angel, hi, hi."

Nicholas suppresses a groan and tries to be cordial,"Mr. Messenger."

"I need to talk to you about George Merchant," Tim says, "Alone."

He knew it! He knew that in a town this size where everyone is interested in other people's business, somebody somewhere had to know what was going on! Messenger's eyes dart around, searching, and then focus back at him as if pleading to be believed.

"Churchyard. Three o' clock."

Messenger runs off as if talking to Nicholas is a dangerous thing to do, like swimming in a shark tank after a big lunch. Maybe it is.

"What do you think he wants," Danny asks.

"Would Sergeant Angel come to the stage, please," Reverend Shooter calls over a load speaker.

Great, he forgot all about the stupid raffle at three o'clock. Nicholas gives the Cuddle Monkey to Danny and it makes an indignant squeak. He sighs. If he's not careful, Sandford is going to drive him completely bonkers. He's just wondering when the cool-aid will be served.

Nicholas walks over to the stage where Shooter is motioning, kindly smiling at him. He straitens his posture, tucks his cap under his arm as the villagers gather around the stage. He can feel all the people watching him as he sits down. He'd rather not be up here even if he didn't have to speak with Messenger.

"Here to announce the winners is newest addition to the Sandford Police Force," Shooter's voice booms.

"Service," he says quietly to no one.

"Sergeant Nicholas Angel."

People politely clap their hands, but he can hear Wainwright and Cartwright insult him in their usual pithy manner.

"Prick."

"Whacker."

Shooter turns, still clapping his hands, expecting him. Hopefully this will be over fast. Nicholas gets up again and approaches the mike.

"Hello."

Feedback screeches over the loudspeaker and he snaps his head back in surprise.

"Hello," he says again, nodding to the crowd as if to apologize, a thunderclap rolls in the distance. He looks up at the clock tower and its two fifty-seven, roughly. Shit.

Shooter starts turning the tom bola, making a click-clack sound, and then hands him a piece of paper. Nicholas fumbles with it.

"The first name is…" he unfolds the paper and his stomach churns. "Simon Skinner."

Everyone applauds, but Simon Skinner is a no-show. In fact, Nicholas hasn't seen him for almost an hour.

"He's in the loo!"

Shooter leans over and grabs the microphone. Nicholas steps back.

"Too much of Joyce's lemonade, perhaps."

People start laughing and another thunderclap sounds, but closer this time. A wind suddenly picks up out of nowhere and they look skyward as if to see where it came from.

"Oh well, these things happen," Shooter says. "When you gotta go, you gotta go."

Shooter chuckles to himself and goes to spin the tom bola again. It rattles as Nicholas looks up at the clock again and it's two fifty-nine. He impatiently watches the tom bola as its bright colors spin around and around. When the wheel finally stops, Shooter hands him another piece of paper. He takes it from him while Shooter peers over to see the next winner.

"And the next name is…" he has to turn the paper around to read it. "Tim Messenger."

Shooter grabs the mike again, "Tim, you're number's up!"

Everyone is laughing and suddenly, something is very, very wrong. It's a sensation that slowly crawls up his spine. It's not a premonition, but an unexplainable certainty. What could possibly happen in broad daylight with the whole village here he doesn't know, he can't explain it to himself, but you don't ignore your instinct.

Nicholas watches the clock, the minute hand moves, the bell sounds, and before he knows it he's jumping off stage.

"Excuse me, excuse me."

Shit, shit, shit!

He's running to the courtyard and the muscles in his legs are complaining about the sudden exertion. What the hell was he doing up there? He could have asked Danny to do it. It's not like Frank wouldn't understand.

Nicholas peels around the corner of the Church and sees a worried Tim Messenger. Nicholas is thrilled to see him for a whole, blissfully ignorant second until his brain points out that a big, fucking rock is hurtling to the spot where Messenger is standing. Messenger smiles, visibly relieved to see him.

"Hello," Tim says, before his head explodes.

"Aaaggggghh!"

Nicholas back-peddles in shock. He throws his arms up to cover his face as blood and brains shoots through the air. It sounded like dynamite going off inside a grapefruit, an explosion in pudding.

He lowers his arms and sees it. There's a great, big, grey spike sticking out where Tim's neck should be. Blood gushes and has sprayed against the church wall. Someone is shouting.

"Agghh! Agghh! Oh, no!"

He feels his knees weaken, his stomach clenches painfully, but he can't look away as Tim's body continues to stumble towards him. Blood is…everywhere. Why won't he just fall down? Does he not understand he's dead?

After an eternity Tim drops to his knees, falls down, and blood splatters on him in such a gory fashion that it looks choreographed.

Nicholas hears people approaching, but it sounds so far away from him and Tim. The Keystone Cops show up. Frank gets there first, and then Danny joins him. It doesn't take long for everyone to gather round. People gasp, press around him, but its Frank that brings reality back to him. The world has returned.

"Stand back, stand back," he shouts. "There's been a terrible accident!"

"Accident," a shrill voice asks.

"Oh my…," Fisher says.

It's all he can do but look at Tim Messenger pulverized and lying there in a growing pool of blood. He still has blood left in him.

_Oh my God…I'm so sorry…_

"Just an accident," Frank says. The word slams into Nicholas' mind and bounces around.

"It alright, it's alright. There's noting left to see," Frank says. "Come on, everybody. It's all right. It's just an accident."

Nicholas looks at the massive stone jutting out of Tim's torso, and looks up towards the sky. It came from the church's roof; it is_ the roof, _a great big piece of it. His heart is pounding so fast and so hard it hurts and it wants to stop, but his mind is also working fast and it says go, go, go!

He runs, all the adrenaline that's been burning and tingling finally has a reason to be used. Nicholas tears past curious bystanders, and pushes his way to the front entrance. The massive wooden doors burst inward in a heavy crash.

And…he doesn't know where to go. He's never been in here.

Nicholas twists every which way—stain-glassed windows give the room a rosy, checkerboard color. There's no sign to indicate how to get to the roof and he's wasting time.

"Oi!"

It's Danny. He stops short of running over him and puts a hand on Nicholas's shoulder to steady himself.

"What," he pants. "You see somethin'?"

"How do you get to the roof?!"

"Wha? Oh, it's um, there's a," another big gulp for air, "stairwell behind the black door." Danny points to the end of the room where the alter is**. **

"Stay here! If you see anyone in here, don't let them leave!"

"Awright," Danny nods. "Be careful."

Nicholas runs down the aisle, past the saints and angels. He can't save Messenger, but he can catch the bastard that killed him. That's the only thing he can do now.

He goes through the black door, up a spiral staircase, and it goes around and around. He's acutely aware that he can't see what's coming around the bend, but it doesn't slow him down.

Another door to burst through and…

Nothing; there's nothing up here. Nicholas stops, his lungs struggling to get enough oxygen. He cannot believe this. He just can't. He staggers around on the roof, Sandford appearing as sleepy and quaint as it always does below him. He wants to fucking scream, but doesn't. Training takes over and tells him that isn't productive. He should go back downstairs and calmly tell the Inspector what's happened.

Somehow he does this. He goes back down the spiral staircase at a regular pace. It doesn't make him dizzy this time. His breathing and heart rate return to normal, slowly but surely. If he goes in there acting like a lunatic, nobody is going to take this seriously.

_Calm down. Don't rattle. Put a distance between you and what's happened._

He comes to the black door, sighs, and wills himself to be as composed as possible. When he collects his wits, Nicholas opens the door and returns to the nave**. **Everybody from the Sandford PD is there. A crowd of bystanders are also huddled in the doorway, all NWA members. Reverend Shooter watches him closely and then looks at Frank. Danny is sad and knowing.

"Nicholas," Frank asks, "what _is_ it?"

"Sir, I think all these deaths are linked. I think Tim Messenger was murdered."

Their reactions are sadly predictable. Bob Walker seems oblivious, Tony Fisher is clueless, and Wainwright and Cartwright act like complete prats. Not that it matters what any of these people think. It's Frank Butterman he's depending on.

"Who would do such a thing," Shooter asks.

"Maybe it was the swan," Wainwright says, while his doppelganger sighs dramatically.

"Apparently they can break a man's arm."

"Or blow up a man's house."

Doris laughs. He seriously hates these people.

"Listen, you pair of…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Nicholas," Frank puts a hand up, and walks over to him. He's earnest, and concerned, and Nicholas is glad he's here.

"Now let me get this straight. Are you saying this is a crime scene?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Very well," Frank nods gravely, then turns sharply and points. It's surprising, but a relief to see the Inspector in action.

"Detectives."

"Sir," Wainwright says.

"Start interviewing everyone who was at the fete."

Wainwright pulls a face and groans, "Alright…"

"He's got shorts on…," Cartwright says.

"Sergeant Fisher."

"What?"

"Secure the area."

"What…?"

"PC Thatcher?

"Yes, luv?"

"Get CSI down here."

"Echh."

"PC Walker."

"Yealab?"

"Patrol the church yard with Saxon."

"Yealab," Bob nods vaguely.

Frank finally turns towards them. "Nicholas, Danny, you know what to do."

Danny practically swells with purpose. Knowing Frank though, it's not going to be anything spectacularly important to the case.

"Right," Danny says, and then after a beat, "Wait, um, what exactly just so we're clear?"

Nicholas suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Good grief. How on earth did Danny make it into the department? Nepotism, surely.

"Get everyone out of the church yard for starters, before they walk all over the crime scene. Then make sure no one crosses the perimeter."

"Gotcha."

"Yeah, cubby, best to leave the investigating to the professionals," Cartwright grins a big shit-eating grin. The Andys high-five each other—Nicholas isn't sure why they think this a contest. If it is, they're losing.

"Brilliant," Nicholas says brightly, "do you know any?"

"Oh, sod off," Wainwright scowls. Cartwright scowls too so he can have something to do.

"Think you know everything, do ya?"

"Not everything, Wainwright. Just more than you."

"I believe," Frank says a little loudly, "I gave everyone an assignment? Yes? Why is everyone still here?"

"Er, right-o," Fisher mutters and sulks away. Walker mumbles incoherently and follows, Saxon close on his heels.

"Can I nip away and make a quick phone call, Chief," Doris asks. "I had plans tonight."

"Make it fast, Doris," Frank says, taking off his hat and running a hand over his almost non-existent hair like an old habit that won't die. Doris slips past the Andrews, but not without shooting an angry look at Nicholas before she goes. Frank sighs.

"Gor Blimey, what a day! Poor Tim…Nasty way to go."

"Very nasty," Shooter nods in agreement. "I certainly hope it's not a murder. Can you even imagine a killer running around Sandford? The city maybe, but not here!"

"Why don't you ask Robocop over there?" Cartwright sneers. "He knows all about killin' people, don' ya Killer?" Wainwright points a finger at Nicholas and makes a sound of a sub-machine gun.

Quite suddenly everyone is focused on him again and not in a good way. Nicholas can feel his body temperature drop ten degrees.

"What _are_ you going on about," Danny asks angrily, coming up behind Nicholas like he's going to protect him from the school bully.

"Nothin'", says Cartwright airily, "Just making an observation."

"Involved in four deadly shooting incidents within three years," Wainwright says, in a low voice, "Extreme even by CO19 standards, wouldn't ya say, Sergeant Fascist?"

"All right," Frank says, sounding fed up. "Enough! We're all the good guys here! Go to work, detectives. We haven't got all day!"

Wainwright straightens, "Right, Chief."

Cartwright just shrugs and the two make their way through the crowd and thankfully disappear. Shooter is looking at Nicholas like he's never seen anything like him before.

"Thank you, Phillip, could you see your way out," Frank asks. Shooter is a bit stunned to be dismissed from his own church, but does what Frank says. He quietly walks out and closes the door behind him.

For once, Nicholas is absolutely speechless. They've successfully floored him. He was completely unprepared for _that, _right after watching someone die a gruesome death. They've outright accused him of being a murderer.

"Why don't you go on ahead? I have a few more questions for the Sergeant."

Nicholas inwardly cringes. Christ, not another heart-to-heart with Frank Butterman. He doesn't think he can stand it right now.

"Uh, yeah…okay," Danny says. Nicholas hears him go past, open the door, shut the door. It's very quiet now that he's left the room. It descends on him like a heavy weight.

Frank sighs. Frank sighs all the damn time, isn't that funny?

"Sit down, Nick."

"Sir," Nicholas says tightly. "I was completely exonerated in all those cases."

"Yes, I know. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't been. Sit down, Nick. I really think you should."

Nicholas stiffly sits down in one of the pews. He doesn't want to talk to Frank. Talking to Frank is rarely a positive thing despite his relaxed attitude towards life. Nicholas looks down and notices little spots of something on his trousers. He's got red on him.

"Come on, scoot," Frank pokes him in the shoulder, and Nicholas complies so Frank can sit next to him.

"Now listen very carefully to me, because sometimes I don't think you do," Frank says softly, leans in. Nicholas has to resist the urge to pull away. "No one doubts you are an exceptional officer, even if you do stick yourself up people's noses. Quite frankly, you're absolutely intimidating. Bless him, you've got poor Tony shaking in his boots any time you're around!"

Nicholas peers up at Frank. He honestly doesn't know what he's talking about and it must show, because Frank keeps going.

"Do you think the Andes, or Tony, or Doris, had Sandford in mind when they enrolled in the academy? They all had visions of coming to the rescue, and being great policemen, but theatrics don't occur in a village this small. They gave up on those dreams a long time ago. And then you blow into town, and point out their shortcomings none to politely, and you've done shaken their confidence in themselves."

"Are you suggesting," Nicholas said, chewing on his words. "That I'm bringing this on myself?"

"I'm suggesting you need to cool off," Frank says sternly.

"People are dying! Tim Messenger is dead!"

"I know! But if nobody saw anything, and CSI can't find anything, what exactly do you expect to happen? Does it not occur to you that if nobody else believes there's a murderous conspiracy, that there might not be one?"

"No it doesn't!"

"Because you're the only one who knows better and we're all incompetent fools, myself included?"

Nicholas opens his mouth, snaps it shut, and feels his cheeks begin to burn.

"That…," he chokes, "that's not what…"

"Now I'm going to make a suggestion to you. Allow yourself to keep an open mind here. That's what a policeman is supposed to do when confronting a situation like this. I don't want you jumping to conclusions and scaring the public. Joanna Messenger probably already knows her father is dead, and might have seen him before we covered him up. I don't want to alarm a fourteen year-old girl any more than I have to, because one of my officer's has a hunch."

"Yea—yes, sir, but sir…"

Frank sighs warily, lifts his glasses up with a big hand and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, son, what is it?"

"Messenger came to me for help…," Nicholas says, so quietly that he's sure that Frank doesn't hear him at first.

"What about," Frank asks after several beats.

"He wanted to meet me alone to talk about George Merchant. He was afraid of someone finding out."

"When was this?"

"Just before the raffle."

"What did he say about George?"

"He never had the chance to tell me. I don't know what he was going to say."

Frank nods. "Well, it certainly doesn't look good, does it?"

"No sir, it really doesn't."

Frank slowly gets up, puts his cowboy hat back on, "I'm ordering you to take your time and calm down before you go back out there. You're in shock, and I don't blame you. Can I convince you to go home?"

_Go home? In the middle of an investigation? Is he nuts?_

"I'd rather stay and help out," Nicholas says, screws up the will to say it. "Please."

Frank's mouth quirks up in the corners, "Okay then, just remember you're not the sheriff around these here parts," he pokes the brim of his hat up, and smiles cheekily. "That's still _my job_."

Frank turns to leave, opens the door. Nicholas can hear shouting outside, thunder rolls ominously, threatening rain. It's probably a disaster out there. The door closes—he's gone and taken that terrible sound with him. Nicholas leans forward and pounds his forehead on the pew in front of him.

God, Frank Butterman sure does know how to make him feel ashamed of himself.

Nicholas sighs unsteadily and puts his hands on top of his head. Some desperate part of him wants Frank to be right, but the other half is already analyzing everything that's happened since he made the mistake of setting foot in Sandford, and it zeroes in on Skinner with a furious intensity Nicholas wouldn't have believed resided in him.

He can't stop it. It will never ever leave him alone, never. He can't un-see what he's just seen. For some reason Skinner is killing people. And Skinner is going to fucking pay. He's going to pay for killing those people. He doesn't know why he would want to kill anyone, but the bastard is obviously toying with him like this is a fucking joke. Life is just a joke to him.

Nicholas's hands curl into fists.

"I'm coming to get you," Nicholas says out loud. It doesn't sound like him at all and travels eerily across the room. Angels and saints look downward and say nothing, they never do. Where is this merciful God that everybody keeps talking about? God is such a fucking asshole!

He straightens himself up and sits there for maybe ten minutes as the sunlight gradually fades away and the church darkens. In the stillness he can hear rain begin to pound on the roof. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to confront the world outside. He's going to though. There's very little choice in the matter.

"Enough. Go to work," he says, and picks himself up, puts on his cap and steels himself. If nobody likes him that's fine but he will convince them, and hopefully before it's too late. There's a momentum here. Skinner will inevitably kill again because he likes to and is arrogant enough to think he can continue to get away with it.

It occurs to him that he really doesn't know anything about Skinner. That will have to change in a hurry.

It also occurs to him that if he's going to investigate in earnest, he's going to need help. Problem with that is, anyone who might have been an ally thinks he's an egotistical jerk who's going crazy. Nicholas doesn't know how to fix that. All his efforts to intergrate himself in the Sandford Police Service have been awkward, spectacular failures. If he has to be honest, he didn't put much effort into it.

_Never mind. _

Nicholas opened the front door and stood in the threshold, a fine mist making him squint. He can see Fisher keeping curious bystanders at bay while trying to set up a police line. He's still got the Spider-man make-up on, and hasn't had time to change into uniform.

Danny is not far away, shooing people, and has the Cuddle Monkey in a choke-hold. He should probably go easier on Danny about his romantic notions of gunfights and car chases. He just doesn't know any better, and Nicholas is glad for that.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

(Ten minutes earlier.)

Frank quickly made his way to the back of the church. Gor, he hates surprises. Joanna Messenger is being lead away by Mary, shell shocked at the moment. That's Joanna, not Mary. Mary is trying very hard not to smirk.

"Get her over to the station," Frank says lightly, and adds, "Tell Sergeant Turner to call her grandmother and have them wait in my office."

"Sure," Mary says, rubbing the girl's arm, "Come on, luv. Everything will be alright."

Joanna numbly turns her head to looks at Mary. From behind a curtain of dark, curly hair, she stares at the woman as if to say, 'You've got to be kidding.' Mary was never good at saying the right thing, but she manages to keep the girl under her draped arm and towards the parking lot.

That's enough for now. Joanna thankfully leaves the scene, a potentially dangerous slip of a girl. He hopes not.

Frank waves at Bob who's waiting over by the body with that same squint, that same bland expression on his face, as enigmatic as ever. Whatever it was that he thought about, it seldom had to do with what was happening around him, Bob having long since retired from the world. He supposes that's the difference between them. The world needed looking after, if only this small part of it.

"Go get changed, man," Frank calls out. "Looks like a storm's comin'! I got it for now."

Bob nods almost imperceptibly, and leads Saxon away. The leash is hardly needed for two reasons: Saxon being totally obedient to his partner's every word, and being much too friendly to be effective K-9 officer. He was more likely to lick a suspect than bite one, but people like mascots, so Frank keeps him on the force.

Frank watches them go, a tight feeling resting at the bottom of his spine. His heart rate is up. It's bloody fantastic.

Frank removes the radio clipped to his belt, presses the call button. It's time to remind them why they need him. Who was it that made these sorts of things possible? He is. Who takes care of thieving kids and nosy policemen? He does. Who keeps them respectable and out of jail?

Him.

"Jim? Are you there? We don't have a lot of time."

Static comes over the radio, and then the distant voice of James Reaper, "Go ahead."

"It just hit the fan. I want you all to stand by in the yard and surround Messenger. Do not let anyone get a good look at him."

"Ten-four."

His mother had once told him you can either be smart or you can be pleasant. Personally Frank didn't see why you couldn't be both, but if you're pleasant no one really notices (or minds) when you've outsmarted them. And that's the key to community policing, yes indeedy. A close second is taking care of your team, so of course Frank has an interest in his new officer and wants him to fit in.

A little problem with that though.

Nicholas Angel isn't pleasant even when he's polite. He's a distant, intense individual, and at times is completely unreadable even to Frank. When he doesn't make the effort to be polite he has a sharp mouth to go with that sharp mind—all smart and no pleasant. He turns down cake and ice cream every time—because that's fun. Fun would be arrested, if Sergeant Angel got his way.

Frank suspects Angel won't fit in at Sandford, much less anywhere else. If Angel wasn't so gosh darn earnest, wasn't so determined to do his job well…Well, perhaps its best not to think about that. Frank just wishes he _knew what to do with him_, now that he has him. The timing couldn't be worse. And Simon, the daft, stupid bugger, isn't helping matters. Simon wants to advertise how clever he thinks he is. Whatever game Simon's trying to play, it's threatening everything they've worked so hard for.

Maintain, is Frank's watchword, just main—tain. Somebody has to do it, and as usual it's going to be him. Until five minutes ago Tim Messenger's gravest sin was his inability to run a spell check, but as incompetent as he was, perhaps he'd notice something he shouldn't have.

A cloudburst. Rain. Buckets of it. The Neighborhood Watch Alliance stood in a circle around the body, turned away and keeping the curious from seeing what's happening. Not that people really notice anything, not really.

He knells down while putting a rubber glove on. Blood and water soak into the knee of his trousers as he bends over the body, and delicately opens the jacket. In the warm confines of cotton and wool he feels his way around, and finds what he's searching for.

Bodies never really bothered Frank. A body was just this thing until you saw the face, but Tim has no face. It's not Tim anymore. Wasn't Tim the second he died, but that familiar smell comes at him. It's the smell that bothers Frank. The smell of rain, and grass, and copper—Frank remembers the smell of every dead body he's ever come in to contact with. Every one.

_There we have it_, Frank thinks, as his hand wraps around a tape recorder. Tim is a southpaw, he remembered, and so always put his recorder in his right breast pocket. There's no forgetting it, since Tim could shove it under your nose at any time. A pity he didn't have the same enthusiasm for all the aspects of his profession.

_Seriously, would it kill him to put some effort into it_, Robin had asked. Yes, they all agreed. Tim was a poor journalist in every conceivable way. Which led to a motion, which led to a vote about having a discussion, which led to a discussion on _what to do with him_, and in an eight to five vote it was determined Tim had to go.

Frank would have rather it been done with a little more dignity, since Tim was such a sweet kid, but since when is death a dignified matter? They can't all go in their sleep.

Frank hands the recorder to Joyce, who without turning takes the recorder and puts it in her purse.

"What should I do with it," Joyce asks, a little breathless, excitable, like when she had been when she was a young girl. Her hand was all atremble, but it's not from fear. Frank knows his team.

"Just hold onto it. I want a listen before we dispose of it."

"What about tapes," Roy asks from the corner of his mouth. He turns his head just slightly.

"It's one of those digital do-hickeys. They don't use tapes no more. Now scoot, before Bob comes back. And see if you can't park along the yard over there, I don't want a bunch of gawkers at my crime scene."

"What," Roy asks. "Frank, are you out of your mind?"

"No. Now go on and get. We've got work to do."

They disperse and head over to the Judge's tent where his detectives have set up shop. Frank drapes Herbert's jacket back over the still form below, almost tenderly. Sorry, Tim, _I_ voted for you, but that's democracy.

If things are to stay pleasant, Nicholas needs to be satisfied just enough to leave this alone, just enough to stay quiet. Is either actually possible? A very good question; Frank hasn't seen that happen yet, but this whole thing is entirely for his own sake. Because that sharp mind was now racing, he's seen it happen before, and Frank didn't want history to repeat itself.

And yes, dammit, it's a crime scene. No, he's not kidding. Why is everyone questioning his judgment these days? Simon and his goddamn power plays, Christ, if he stopped being so bloody vain they wouldn't be in this mess. They can't get rid of everybody, for gosh sake.

As for Simon…Frank has to take the stairs leading to the church basement. They are unforgiving concrete with no slip guards. He takes them two at a time. He wonders idly what would happen if he slipped and fell. What then? Did it, in the grand scheme of things, really matter? Does any of it? Frank sees Michael and Simon in the basement window and his anger turns, transfigures, and all thoughts of falling disappear.

Frank opens the door just a little. Then he kicks the door a lot.

"FREEZE!"

Seeing that ridiculous man jump in fright makes it all worth it. Simon has his robe half way over his head, hardly the boogeyman or the respectable shopkeeper. Frank can't help but laugh. Michael giggles, but not with self-assurance.

"Luuuucy," Frank wags his finger, shoulders bobbing up and down, "you—you got a lot of 'splaining to—to do!"

Simon pulls his robe off roughly, making his usually fussed over hair disheveled. Simon looks angry. Simon smash puny policeman. Grr.

"You are," Simon measures each word out, "an insufferable prick."

"Indulge me a little, Simon," Frank giggles. Yes, giggles. He doesn't know why it's so funny but it is. "I'm going through a lot of trouble to make sure you don't become a big scary man's girlfriend."

"Yes, it must be difficult eating ice cream all day."

_Main—tain._

Chapter 3

(Ten minutes later.)

Nicholas quickly scanned the village green.

Sandford is the epitome of country quaintness—quiet, sleepy, achingly British. The people here talk and move slower than they do in London, and it's ridiculously adorable and clean. In fact it's really clean. While on foot patrol he's seen a fussy Tom Weaver scrub that fountain at least twice this week to get rid of graffiti; and after having finally gotten rid of the Living Statue, too.

Sandford isn't quiet and sleepy right now though. People are rushing to cover their wares, rushing under tents to stay dry, but going in a slow drove to the Judge's tent where Wainwright and Cartwright are at. Composure was replaced with furrowed brows. Faces were curious, irritated, alarmed, or confused. Saxon is barking on the other side of the church.

An angry buzz fills the air.

The sound system is screeching overhead. Weaver and Amanda Paver are up at the podium messing with tangled wires in an effort to turn off the equipment off before it shorts out or electrocutes somebody. Nicholas mentally cringes as Paver gives up and starts pulling plugs.

Nicholas doesn't spot Skinner. Skinner is conspicuously absent from his bat a rat stall and so is Michael Armstrong.

"Splat the rat," Nicholas mumbles. Marcus Serrano suddenly comes to mind and demands attention. Nicholas remembers quite clearly how the man's brains and teeth flew out on the other side of his face. He pushes the thought away with considerably more effort than usual.

"Everyone, please, go to the Judge's tent," Wainwright says over a bullhorn, "We only need your contact information for the time being. Don't leave, Jason Parker, I can _see_ you."

In all his time in Sandford, Nicholas has been watched. He's the new guy so that's to be expected. People are curious. It's such a strange feeling though. People he's never met wave hello to him. He's stood in line at the supermarket with one of the kids he booked for underage drinking just yesterday. Harry Potter got so nervous in his presence he stuttered while talking to his Mother and tried very hard not to notice Sergeant Angel buying Ex-Lax. Sometimes he feels like he's trapped in a comedy-of-manners over here.

But Nicholas is watching Sandford, too, and he takes excellent notes.

_1-5-06  
Case: 16  
Time: 1513 hrs  
Staged Accident-at St Vincent's Church  
Victim-Tim Messenger_

Victim Messenger sustained fatal injury to the head due to a dislodged pediment from the roof at 1500 hrs, in St. Vincent's yard. Before this he claimed to have important information about George Merchant and was concerned for his safety. Possible connection to Blower/Draper case and Merchant case.

Arrived on scene: PI Butterman, PC Butterman, PC Walker, PC Thatcher, PS Fisher, DC Cartwright, DS Wainwright, and myself.

Everyone and their granny is here, so why does that not make him feel better? Wainwright and Cartwright's attitude trouble him the most. Somebody, please, save those idiots from themselves.

_I've touched front door handles, stairwell door handle, roof door handle, my foot prints can be found in stairwell leading up to the roof. It started to rain approx. five min after discovery._

All officers above have entered the foyer of the church, along with Rev. P. Shooter. Suspecting there was assailant on the roof, I proceeded to the stairwell but did not see or hear anyone.

How to explain that one? Frank is right. It is possible that Messenger's death is an accident, but it's just too convenient, too much of a coincidence.

The only thing that can explain away Nicholas' suspicions is that his own mind is playing tricks on him and that bothers him more than anything. If he can't trust himself to view the situation clearly what good is he? It can't be his imagination. He really doesn't have one.

_Suspect could have exited through the back and lost himself in the crowd. Simon Skinner was missing from the fete around the time of death, and afterwards, along with his employee Michael Armstrong._

Whatever Messenger discovered about Merchant, he must have done so between 0600 and 1500 today, since he didn't mention it this morning at Merchant's house. Its possible the victim drew attention to himself, as he wasn't exactly discreet.

Nicholas snapped his notebook shut and tucked it away underneath his vest. It is going to be a very wet, cold, miserable day for everyone. He attempts to lock the front doors and discovers he can't. It's too antique to be locked without a key.

_Brilliant. The Preservation Society strikes again, the old, crusty bastards._

Nicholas cued his mike, "Inspector, what's your twenty? Over."

Released the call button, then waited and waited.

"This is Officer 777. Eleven ninety-nine over at the front entrance. Does anyone copy?"

The sound of static and then the dulcet tones of Doris Thatcher, probably the biggest flirt Nicholas had ever met. Nicholas hasn't exactly been flattered. Thatcher flirts with herself.

"Whadaya need?"

"I need the church locked down. Can you get the keys for me?"

"I'll have the Reverend take care of it."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Uhhh, why is that," Thatcher asked, sounding tired.

"It's a _crime scene_, I don't think it very appropriate do you?"

"Everyone's been all over the green all day. You really think it's going to matter?" Thatcher pulls the mike away, yells something Nicholas doesn't understand and then comes back a little more annoyed than before.

"If you can't trust a priest who can you trust?"

"It's not about trust. He could inadvertently contaminate the—for Pete's sake, I shouldn't have to explain this!"

"Just ask him to come by on Channel 3. He doesn't bite, y'know."

Ah yes, the NWA and its incestuous relationship with the local law enforcement. He's starting to suspect the NWA polices Sandford more than the police do. Its not that there shouldn't be a Neighborhood Watch, it's their smothering presence that is so off-putting. Watch members shouldn't be able to enter the custody suite. To his amazement, no one seemed to think it inappropriate for Skinner to be there.

Another disturbing thought: Skinner is Frank's buddy, or something like that. Frank will be hard to convince. Nicholas isn't sure he can even suggest Skinner's culpability to his superior, but he's going to have to soon enough.

"Is Frank still with you? I need to know if I should call an ambulance or not."

"I'm pretty sure he's dead, Constable. Call the Coroner's office."

Oh forget it. No help at all. And where the hell is Frank? He's supposed to be in charge. Nicholas shuts the doors to the church and runs out to meet Danny. In the sudden deluge, rain begins to beat down on him and seeps into his shirt, his trousers, and under his collar, giving him a very unpleasant chill. Fisher notices him approaching and drops what he's doing to meet with them.

"Danny!" he calls out. Danny turns and is uncharacteristically serious. He sincerely hopes Danny doesn't ask him about what transpired in the church.

"What's up," Danny asks. Fisher catches up with them, looking a little anxious, and kept having to wipe his glasses. The nose pads grind into the grease paint on his face and leave marks.

"What is up, Sergeant? This is a right bloody nightmare."

"Then we're going to turn this around," Nicholas surveys the area immediately surrounding the church and makes a decision. "I want a three layer perimeter. Danny, finish securing the church and stay here until Fisher and I set up the outer tier. Then we'll set up some secondary posts."

"'Kay."

"Let's go," he says, and they're off. Well…he's off. Fisher takes a second to realize they're leaving and has to catch up with him. He had parked right outside the brick wall near the entrance of the church. The wall will come in handy, but they're going to need a few things. Nicholas unlocked the boot of his car and rummaged through his crime scene equipment, handing Fisher supplies.

"_Seriously_, man, you really think this is a murder," Fisher asks, in such a golly-shucks manner it instantly gets on Nicholas' nerves.

"Can you prove to me it isn't?"

"The roof needs repair," Fisher shrugs. "Everybody knows that."

"Someone could take advantage of that to stage an accident. Keep going."

"What?"

"Explain to me why a murder in Sandford is so impossible that this doesn't deserve some investigation. I clearly don't get it."

"There's nobody in Sandford," Fisher trying to be reasonable, "but our friends and neighbors. I don't think you realize what you're suggesting."

"I do realize what I'm saying, and it's not a _suggestion_. And statistically speaking, you're more likely to be murdered by someone you know, than some random stranger."

"What a ray of sunshine you are," Fisher mumbles, and then more loudly, "You'll just have to excuse the rest of us for being a tad doubtful. We haven't investigated a murder since 1986. Nothing ever happens here, usually."

Nicholas slammed the boot of the car shut and is now watching Fisher with new interest. That's probably the most compelling thing he's heard Fisher say. And if there's two things Fisher likes best in the whole world, it's gossiping and complaining.

Nicholas shifts his tone. He doesn't want to argue with Fisher even if he finds tip-toeing around the man's ego a complete waste of time. The poor sod is practically begging for somebody to take him seriously, so fine, he'll give it a try.

"What happened with that?"

"Not much I'm afraid. Little Shirley Baker vanished during the Cheese Festival and we found her in a field", Fisher considers this for a moment, momentarily pensive. "Nasty bit of business. Lost plenty of sleep over that one."

"Cases involving children are fairly difficult," Nicholas nodded, and they started walking back towards the church. Fisher nods too, agreeing with Nicholas agreeing with him.

"Yeah, well, Frank had a hell of a time—it created a lot of resentment from the community, you see. He nearly got himself fired by the council because we couldn't produce a suspect. Although I think Irene took that more personally than Frank did, to be honest."

"Irene?"

"His wife."

"Oh. Here," Nicholas handed Fisher another mike for him, Danny's jacket, and another box of tape. "Run this over to Danny so he doesn't drown out there. Then come help me. Is Frank calling in any assistance? I can't get a hold of him."

"He didn't say. It takes the boys from CSI about forty minutes to get here. After that it's their problem."

"Can Walker see the back entrances from the churchyard?"

"Oh sure."

"Good."

Fisher is at least cooperative if not exactly on the ball. They split up and rope off the outer tier; directing stragglers over to the Judge's tent and snapping pictures along the way. When they meet again at the back of the perimeter Nicholas finally spots Skinner in the parking lot talking to Thatcher, while NWA members park their cars in a row, in effort to block the public's view. Nicholas stops for a moment to observe him. When Skinner places a hand on her shoulder it makes his skin crawl.

Nicholas aims his camera and brings Skinner into his sights. He doesn't know what he's waiting on, with Skinner. It's not like he's going to catch the man rubbing his hands, going 'Mahaha', although, if anyone were to actually do that it would be him.

No, in his experience murderers have rather dull personalities. The only thing that makes them interesting is their shocking crime. There are no Professor Moriartys or Bond villains, who invite you for a drink and politely explain their master plan before they kill you.

Skinner bought Merchant a copious amount of alcohol last night.

"Oh, well, there's a good idea," Fisher says, cutting the last of the rope and tying to a parking meter. "I wish I'd thought of that." Fisher absently pushed his glasses up and looks over at him as if expecting more small talk, looks over at Skinner, and then looks back at Nicholas with an arched brow.

"You don't like Simon, do you?"

"Not exactly."

"Well I would suggest you watch what you say to him. He could make your life fairly difficult. He's on the council, y'know, and can be pretty vindictive when he wants to."

"For example?"

"Oh…," Fisher backpedals for a moment. "Oh. Well, hmm…well…he did get fairly pissy over where that new playground is going. Had quite a row with Leslie."

"Over a playground?"

"Tempers can get pretty hot. I realize where to put a playground might not mean a lot in Lon-don, but it certainly does to people around 'ere."

"Fair enough," Nicholas said noncommittally.

"Sooo…just how many posts, do we reckon?"

"We need to set up a command post and a comfort area, at the very least. Tell Thatcher she's now the Supply officer and we need anything to barricade the area she can get her hands on."

"Very good," Fisher nods approvingly.

"We're going to have to seal off the parking lot."

Fisher groans. "Are you joking?"

"Do you have another suggestion as to where the response vehicles will go?"

Fisher sighs. "Right-o, Sarge, straight away. Anything else?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something," Nicholas cues his mike again, "Danny, head over to the parking lot."

"Oh good. _Do_ let the rest of us know when you've solved the mystery," Fisher shakes his head, does a little jog across the parking lot.

He wants to arrest Skinner right now, but he doesn't have anything. It's all circumstantial. All gallows humor and smirking, and…and…why should Skinner bother him so damn much? He doesn't understand it.

But something inside him knows the answer and stabs him with its steely knives.

"Come over here and make a joke, Simon," Nicholas growls to himself. "Don't disappoint me now. That's no way to get ahead in life. He'll never be the head of Major Corporation. A bodiless head walks into a bar…Well? I'm ready to play now."

Nicholas finishes posting the last of the signs. He doesn't go over there to kick Skinner's ass. He'd very much like to. Nicholas hears Danny running behind him, and sees that Danny still has that stupid cowboy hat on, complete with plastic cap. Danny is such a goob, but he's Nicholas' goob, and the only one willing to put his ice cream down long enough to do his job.

"What's going on? Nobody ever tells me anything," he says, fidgeting with his hat.

"What's going on is what we're doing right now: securing the scene, calming the public, proper action, and most importantly, shit. I sorry there are no high-octane explosions. Maybe that'll happen later, if you're lucky."

"Come on, don't be that way. I just thought you might, I dunno, want to go look for scoobies."

"That's CID's job, as they're so fond of reminding us, just in case people forget."

"Puh-lease. The last case they cracked was a case of beer."

Another suppressed sigh and he again reminds himself this isn't the time to get worked up. That Danny is only trying to help.

"I guess it's a good thing we're on the job then."

Danny seems pleased with this, probably looking forward to "proper action", even if it is not as exciting as he would like it to be. That is, if Frank will actually let them participate in the investigation. Nicholas can only suppose one or two things, Frank's need to shelter Danny keeps him out of the loop by proxy, or he feels the need to appease Wainwright and Cartwright.

It's enormously frustrating, no matter what it is.

Fisher jogs back to them and returns to that hunched profile of his. The one that broadcasts his complete lack of self-esteem and willingness to do whatever you tell him even when he disagrees with it. Not that that hasn't helped Nicholas today, but good grief, he'd rather not force him to do anything.

"Sergeant, would you prefer to keep the log book or should I?"

"No, no, I'll take care of it," Tony hands Danny his bundle of rope and box of line tape. Nicholas prepares the logbook for him, just in case.

Danny shakes his head at Fisher, "Where on earth do you guys keep finding that stuff? I thought Dad cut that out of the budget?"

"I ordered some for Jackie. He thinks it's the bee's knees."

"It is the bee's knees. I used 'ta have some in my room when I was a kid."

"Here," Nicholas hands Fisher the log book, and starts making a few more entries in his notebook. "We'll let everyone know when the comfort area is set up."

"Sounds…comfy," Danny says. "Makes me think of warm tea and puppy dogs. You want your Cuddle Monkey?"

"My…what?" his train of thought derails. Sometimes talking to Danny is a surreal experience. At times their conversations are spider webs with one tangent leading to another. He stopped trying to keep up with the pop culture references. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Danny holds up the toy he won at the shooting gallery and gives it a squeeze. It squeaks. Fisher is trying hard not to grin and has suddenly found the log book fascinating reading. What it is that he's pretending not to see is anyone's guess, but it renews his annoyance with the man.

"Er, no thanks. You can have it," he finishes making a record of their activities and tucks it away again. "I want this finished some time today. Let's go."

And he goes, and Danny follows after him after realizing he meant right now.

Thatcher and Sergeant Turner come through after all, and they finally establish an inner perimeter tying tape and rope onto anything standing. Nicholas stops to make another entry.

"Always writing away," Danny says.

"Taking good notes is imperative in our line of work."

Danny surveys the area for a moment and frowns. "Not to complain or anything, but isn't Tony supposed to be doin' this too?"

"We're here anyway, so we might as well give him a hand."

"You mean do it for him, don't you?"

"No, I don't want any more cross-contamination than there is already." Besides, Fisher's where he liked him best, out of the way.

Danny rubs his lower back, and winces. "There sure is a lot of heavy lifting in police work, ever notice that? I nearly got a Charlie Horse carrying that mine."

"Funny thing that. I wasn't aware farmers kept a stockpile of semi-automatics."

"Rabbits, mate. Big radioactive ones."

"Hmm," Nicholas bites his lip, taps his pen against it. Now that Danny mentions it he reconsiders the incident on Ellroy Farm again. "It's always the same thing when you catch these guys," he mumbles. "These aren't my guns, they just happened to be lying around."

"'Course they were."

"This isn't my marijuana, I'm just holding it for a friend."

"That's what mates are for."

"Honestly, officer, these aren't my pants."

"_Pants?_"

"Have you ever had to patrol Callahan Park in the middle of the night and search heroin addict's pockets? It's quite an experience."

"Yeah, just last week. I do that shit all the time."

"And if he did just happen to find them?"

"He's lying, duh," Danny shakes his head. "I'd lie if the Fuzz found my stash."

"You have a stash?"

"Shhh!" Danny whispers conspiratorially. "This place is crawling with cops, man."

"Sometimes I wonder about you. You clearly have some ulterior motive."

"I wish!" Danny feigns an exaggerated somberness, "I've disgraced the Butterman name too many times already."

"I suspected it never."

"I tell ya, it sucks having the Inspector as your Dad sometimes. When I was growin' up, I couldn't get away with shit. And just normal kid stuff too like I was expected to be perfect or somethin'. What does your Dad do?"

Nicholas ticks off points with his fingers. "Webbley's story never changed. He can't possibly afford to buy all that firepower. He didn't report it, but didn't have to mention it either. So what does that tell you?"

"Uh, I dunno..."

"Hmm. I suppose, in light of everything…"

"What?"

"I don't know."

No skid marks means no breaking, means no one trying to stop, means Blower incapable of stopping, means…what? Those blokes with the wrecker, didn't he see them working in Somerfields? Must remember to check…Wait.

"The butchers in Somerfields? Goatees. Do you know them?"

"The Butcher brothers? Sure."

"Hold on," Nicholas looks up from his notebook. Danny is craning overhead to see, and looks up too. "The butchers are named…Butcher?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good grief."

Nicholas wonders what the surname for psychotic murderers is. It's probably not Skinner. It's been Pisstaker all along, receiving psychic messages from his swan to kill people. He's cracked the case. They can all go home now.


End file.
